Hermione Granger Is Dead
by HP-Forever-XX
Summary: Entry for Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Round 10—What happens to Ron Weasley in a world where Hermione Granger dies in the Battle of Hogwarts?


**Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 7—Round 10**

**Team: **Holyhead Harpies  
**Position: **Captain  
**Task: **Reverse a character's fate from the Battle of Hogwarts (Hermione)

**Word Count: **1,377

* * *

**Hermione Granger Is Dead**

Ron Weasley is eighteen years' old, and Hermione Granger is dead.

At first there is just pain. He screams, and howls, and tears at his hair, heavy sobs shaking his entire body, yet no tears actually fall. It is simply too painful.

The nights that follow are agonising, restless. He relives the nightmare over and over again—her pale face, frozen in shock, the light still gleaming in her chestnut eyes until it slowly dwindles to a cold ember. A light he will only ever see again in his memory. But it is still too painful.

* * *

Ron Weasley is eighteen years' old, and Hermione Granger is being buried. Each fallen hero was given their own funeral, rather than a mass send-off for all of those they lost. Ron has so far endured the funerals of so many, his brother Fred included. And yet, somehow, this is the worst, and he feels guilty. He doesn't cry anymore. He doesn't show emotion. He is just… numb. Haunted by a memory.

The memory of a bossy girl with frizzy hair, the most stubborn, determined attitude, the sharpest wit.

And the softest lips.

* * *

Ron Weasley is nineteen years' old, and Hermione Granger is dead. Kingsley has offered him and Harry both positions within the Ministry, but Ron refuses. Hermione loathed the Ministry, and even though Kingsley has seen it through a more honest, reliable reformation, Ron can only recall every single adventure and trial they endured during the last eight years. And he can't go back. He can't.

Not without her.

* * *

Ron Weasley is twenty years' old, and Hermione Granger is dead.

"She's really nice," Harry insists. "Funny, kind, smart—"

"No, she's not," Ron dismisses instinctively. He knows funny, kind, smart, and it is not the co-worker his best friend is trying to set him up with.

Harry's face falls. "Ron—"

"I'm not interested."

The younger man regards him with pity. "Ginny and I think it would be really good for you," he says softly.

Ron tenses. He does not like 'Harry and Ginny.' He likes Harry, and he likes Ginny. But he does not like 'Harry and Ginny.' A team. A couple. _In love._

He thinks of soft, brunette hair that doubled in volume from the humidity of a working cauldron. He thinks of inquisitive eyes, darting back and forth across an oversized textbook by the dwindling firelight of the common room. He thinks of the sweetest thing he's ever tasted—the delicateness of her lips pressed against his in the fleeting passion of a time they never knew they'd lose.

"Ron—"

"I'm not interested," he says firmly.

* * *

Ron Weasley is twenty-one years' old, and Hermione Granger is dead.

Harry and Ginny have moved in together, and Ron knows it's only a matter of months, maybe even weeks, until they announce their engagement. He lives at home still. Under his mother's watchful, concerned eye. Even George has moved out. He has a job, a thriving business, and a relationship that brings him comfort and joy.

Ron resents him for having gotten over Fred's death so seemingly easily. Where are the restless nights, the weight loss, the dark, sunken eyes, the _misery? _Where is the anguish, and the heartbreak, and the constant empty hollowness in the pit of his chest where his heart once beat so erratically every time she touched him, or looked at him, or simply filled his thoughts and dreams with her endless charm and vicious tongue?

"I, uh, I was looking at job advertisements in the Prophet, and there are some really great positions in Diagon—"

"No thanks," Ron says casually, staring out the window of the Burrow at the luscious garden. He thinks he can see a butterfly, and he feels sorry for it. It'll die soon. It could be an accident; it could be at the hand of a predator. Ron could swat it to death in an instant with his hand, let alone a lazy flick of his wand. Or maybe, just maybe, it would just die. It would just cease to exist. It would reach the end of its life, and that would be it.

"Ron—" his mother tries again.

"I said no thanks."

* * *

Ron Weasley is twenty-three years' old, and Hermione Granger has been dead for five years.

He stands by her graveside, alone, a bunch of pure white lilies clutched in his hand. He has no idea what her favourite flower was—whether she even liked flowers. He never asked her. He never got the chance to discover what the answer might be.

He swallows the lump in his throat. This is always the hardest bit.

"I miss you 'Mione,' he struggles to say, the words catching in his throat. "I really, really miss you."

Ron thinks he feels a light breeze suddenly pick up, as though a hand is reaching out to ruffle his hair and tell him it's okay. But it's just the wind. And it isn't okay.

The tears are falling before he knows it, and Ron crumples onto the grave like a piece of tissue, the lilies scattered around him, hauntingly pure and white.

* * *

Ron Weasley is twenty-five years' old and the best man at his sister's wedding to his best friend. He hasn't worn an outfit so smart since the ghastly ensemble he wore to the Yule Ball when he was fifteen years' old.

But he tries not to dwell on it. That occasion, that night… that was the first time…

He gulps as Ginny begins to ascend the aisle, and he's grateful. People will assume he's tearing up at the sight of his baby sister all dressed in white, preparing to marry the love of her life. But in truth, Ron's barely paying attention to the wedding that's happening around him. He's remembering a girl with soft, brown hair and a periwinkle dress, and the night he realised he might just be in love with her.

He blinks the tears away and stares straight out into the congregation. A warm pair of eyes and a kind smile catches his eye, and then he looks back to Ginny still ascending the aisle.

* * *

Ron Weasley is thirty years' old, and Hermione Granger is dead.

But he might just be okay.

Harry and Ginny are expecting their first child. George's business is thriving like never before thanks to Ron's involvement. The Burrow is occupied by Mr and Mrs Weasley alone, but is never short of visitors.

Ron swallows another nervous lump in his throat and grapples for the box in his pocket just to check it's still there. He feels the soft reassurance of the velvet beneath his touch. He sighs.

"Hi 'Mione," he says gently, staring down at the marble gravestone. Someone has been recently, because there's an armful of sunflowers propped up beneath her engraved name. Ron thinks she would have liked sunflowers. Again, he regrets that he never truly knew.

"I hope you're okay," he continues. "I saw your parents the other week, and they're doing real good. We've been through nearly all of your photo albums—my favourite pictures are the ones where you've lost a tooth. You look so proud," he chuckles warmly. "They've just donated the last of your books. The charities were very grateful, although they couldn't quite believe a girl under ten was reading Charles Dickens…"

Ron smiles, then remembers the diamond ring in his pocket. He gulps. "Things are real good," he says sincerely. "Really, _really_ good. In fact… I'm proposing. Today. But I wanted you to be the first to know." He fishes the box from his pocket and displays it to the marble epitaph. "I often think about what we could have been. If this is something… you would have wanted. With me," he gulps. "But I'm grateful for the time we did have, even though I so desperately wanted more."

A tear threatens to form in Ron's eye, but he blinks it back. Gently, he closes the box.

"But I'm okay 'Mione. I really am."

A gentle breeze rustles Ron's hair as though reassuring him it's okay too.

"Thank you," he gulps, a smile spreading across his face the way he feels a lightness spreading through his heart. "Thank you."


End file.
